


The unpleasantness at Lambdon

by LaboriousScholastic



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Ableism, Class Differences, Crime Fighting, Crossover, Disability, LGBTQ Character, Poverty, Regency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-10-02 20:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 18,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaboriousScholastic/pseuds/LaboriousScholastic
Summary: A gruesome death. An Irish missionary. Plenty of skulduggery.





	1. A grue(l)some morning

**Author's Note:**

> This text refers to disability, class, religion etc. in ways that reflect the period in which the story is situated, and which are considered offensive today.

In her first year of marriage, Lizzie was certain that 'all this' would never get old. "All this" referred to the spacious, well-furnished rooms, the well-kept gardens, the excellent food, the artworks in every room, the sheer number of servants - in short, to Pemberley. She was certain that she would always perceive it in all its glory, always be cognizant of its exquisiteness and luxuriousness, bask in its glory and remain aware of the privileges connected with it. But after some time, "all this" had become invisible, moved to the background of daily existence. She stopped noticing the art, and only sensed that she was surrounded by beauty. She stopped thinking about the number of servants employed, but was aware of the calm and focus the well-oiled machinery behind Pemberley afforded her. In short, Pemberley had stopped to be a private collection to which she was a privileged visitor, and had turned into her beloved home.  
"My dear, there will be a new visitor arriving tomorrow. A missionary from Ireland, who is travelling through England and Wales to share his methods and their excellent results."  
Elisabeth nodded, and took a sip of tea. These things could not be helped. She was fully aware of the fact that Darcy disliked these interlopers as much as she did, but their role in society demanded to play occasional host to well-respected clergy, poor relations, and the occasional great aunt thrice removed in need of country air. She viewed it as a kind of charity, rather than as social intercourse.  
"Whom does he missionary to in Ireland? One should have thought that 14 centuries after St. Patrick, the Good Book had arrived at our neighbouring isle?"  
"It seems there is some ongoing conflict between Popery and the Anglican Church, which the Irish are taking very seriously indeed. Mr. Pleasant – that is his name – is Irish himself. Besides, he is involved in all kinds of good works. Orphans and some such."  
Mrs. Darcy nodded and nibbled on a slice of toast. She had never been delicate, and tended to eat heartily at breakfast, but in recent days, her normally strong constitution was somewhat diminished. This, certainly, was the reason she did not come up with a humorous riposte. Religion, in general, was a risky territory for exercising one's wit. Even men who seemed to be just religious enough to fulfil what law and society demanded of them often dispreferred jokes that touched on the holier aspects of existence. Pointing out the obvious ridiculousness of clergy was acceptable, but anything that approached blasphemy was frowned upon.  
"You seem unwell. Would a nice basin of gruel suit you? Thin, but not too thin?"  
"My dear, it is not polite to call a woman – even a married woman like me – old."  
"I did not, dearest, specifically relate to the number of your years."  
"Yet you suggested gruel – why not add a soft-boiled egg and a flannel waistcoat to your suggestions? No, all I need is a little exercise. I have been sadly neglecting my walks."  
Darcy looked through the large panes of one of the breakfast room windows. "Exercise sounds like a suitable way to return some colour to your lovely cheeks. Yet, looking outside, it seems it would indeed best be paired with a flannel waistecoat."  
"Maybe in a decade or two," Lizzie thought, but refrained from saying aloud. Instead, she took another sip of tea and smiled at her proud and handsome husband. She would take a walk around the lake, and then head east, towards Lambton. The village was a bit too far to walk to on a cloudy day like today, but there were plenty of beautiful vistas on the way.  
Lizzie had been correct: After half an hour of exercise in the fresh air, her nausea subsided. She enjoyed the sensations a vigorous walk bestows on the senses: the sights, sounds and smells of prosperous countryside living. She passed several well-kept cottages that belonged to the estate. Most were inhabited by hard-working farmers who rented them together with the lands that they grew wheat and rye on. One or two of the smaller ones were left rent free to the deserving poor. Like Knacker's Cottage, where old Mrs. Smith, who had been widowed in the War, lived with her nine children, five of which were still young of years, and one of which was stricken with lunacy, unable to support himself. Mrs. Smith took in washing and laundry, in which the older girls assisted her. The oldest boy worked on a neighbour's farm, and contributed to the small income and poor relief the family subsisted on.  
Finally, she scaled the hill that separated Pemberley from Lambton. The vista was not quite as picturesque to warrant drawing it, its sublimeness lying less in gnarled and twisted trees as in fertile fields, well-maintained homes, and passable streets. Today, though, something else added to the vista. She watched the Magistrate's coach driving along one of these slightly muddy, but still bearable streets, and stop in front of Dr. Miller's house. Even before he had left the carriage, Mrs. Miller, Dr. Miller's spinster sister, had come running out of the house, gesticulating hysterically. And was this blood that stained her hands and clothes dark red?  
All colour drained from Lizzie's face. She turn around, and started walking back home.


	2. A missionary calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Pleasant joins the family dinner. Also: Blood.

Of course it had started to rain. This, overall, proved to be a good thing. When Elisabeth Darcy arrived at Pemberley, her pale complexion and shivering hands were taken an indicative of coldness and wetness, and she was shushed into her chambers, assisted in changing into a fresh dress, and supplied with a nice fire, hot broth and brandy within minutes. Her body revived quickly, but her mind lingered with what she had seen. She asked for a novel to be brought to her, as a means to occupy and calm her mind. After all, the person who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid, and she knew herself to not be stupid. Maybe she was stupid, after all, or maybe it was the novel, but "The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties" failed at cheering her up. It was, indeed, difficult to be a woman on one's own, friendless, without a trusted male family member to support one. Having to work for one's income, after having been brought up high, and then being cheated of one's well-deserved payment. Falling lower and lower on the social ladder... She shuddered. No, even if she had not married the love of her life, this would never have happened to her. Her older brother would have supported them. Or the Gardiners. She might have been poor, but never desperately so, and, more importantly, never friendless. She put the book to the side.   
"Shall I inform the kitchen that you will take your dinner in your chambers, Madam?"  
"No, Henrietta. I will dine with the family. Has Ms. Darcy arrived by now?"  
"No, Madam. She sent note from Oxford that she will be delayed by another day. But the strange gentleman has arrived, Madam."  
"The strange gentleman? Oh, you mean Mr. Pleasant? The missionary?"  
"Yes, Madam."  
A missionary at the house meant that dinner would remain informal – as informal as dinner at a Great House such as Pemberley could be – but would be less intimate, less familiar. No extra courses or fancier dishes, but additional requirements for polite conversation. She relished the evenings spent only in the immediate family circle. Evenings just with Darcy, maybe Georgiana, maybe one of her sisters visiting, or the Bingleys... No need for pretence, just friendly sociability. She also enjoyed the grant festivities, the yearly ball, the excellent dinners for friends and local dignitaries, when champagne would be served and ice cream enjoyed, when the table would be brimming under candles and pineapples. But having one or two houseguests usually meant social obligations without the freedom of the family circle and the spectacular luxuries of special events.   
And among house guests, missionaries were the worst. Darcy had hinted that poor female relations could be even worse, but she had been spared of these, so far. She had not been spared of missionaries. They were dull, without realizing their dullness, a terrible combination.   
Elizabeth quickly changed dress, instructing her maid to prepare the simplest of the appropriate dinner hairstyles, and went down on time to be introduced to the house guest and be assisted into the dining room.   
There were two types of men who served the Lord: those that were finely clad and of strong build, and those who were wearing the fashions of several summers past, and who were bordering on emaciated. This was indeed a strange gentleman, as he was thin as a stick, yet dressed in the finest dress a London tailor could provide, from his wig – yes, a wig, even though the rest of his dress was to fashion - to his kid gloves, which he kept on, against all rules of decorum, during the meal. The same applied to a silken scarf he had wound around his neck, and an unusual pair of glasses, in a dark, bluish shade. Mr. Pleasant had noticed her curious looks – but behaved in the most gentlemanly way possible, that is he ignored her impertinence. Rather than providing an explanation directly, which would have indicated that he had noticed her slip in polite behaviour, he waited till the meal was served, to comment:   
"What lovely selection of dishes! Please pardon that I only partake in a little soup – my health is affected by travel, and my doctor – on whose recommendation I depend in all matters of food, or dress, or habits – insists I refrain from food that is too heavy."   
Lizzie could imagine no physician recommending blue glasses against the perturbations of travel, but then, one never knew. If sea bathing could become a health craze, why not coloured glasses?   
If his appearance to the eye was mixed, his appearance to the ear was excellent. His velvety-smooth voice gave no indication of bad health, and betrayed only to the careful listener his Irish origins. And what pleased the ear also pleased the mind. His conversation was polite without being dull. For once, they had a missionary guest who was not prone to quoting Fordyce's sermons at every opportunity. Instead, he posed intelligent questions about the area and its inhabitants.   
Also, he was not possessed by the customary boastfulness of people who work for the public good, so that Elisabeth actually had opportunity to ask him about his contributions to the upkeep of society's weakest members:   
"I see, Mr. Pleasant, how it must interest you how we here in Derbyshire look after the fatherless and widows in their affliction. Is not this your special area of expertise?"  
"Thank you, Mrs. Darcy, for your gracious interest in our little works. I keep a little school for those who are able to learn, but who are rejected by their communities. Not for being poor – after all, honest poverty is no affliction – but for being strange. In the rural parts of my beautiful homeland, the unschooled farm hand and his downtrodden wife are too easily let to mistake any small abnormality, and minor deviation, as evidence of demonic possession. Thanks to many good Christians' contributions, we are able to offer them shelter and education."   
"But would it not profit them, and society more, if the belief in demonic possession was countered, rather than its consequences?"  
He took a spoonful of soup, and swallowed it without the least sound, and without even seeming to open his mouth, hidden behind the silken scarf.   
"This, certainly, is true. But I am just a single worker, and find that though I can fight the consequences of this evil, I lack the powers to fight the evil itself."  
"Regarding evil," Mr. Darcy chimed in, "you will hear much here in the coming days. I do not wish to gossip, Mr Pleasant, but you will hear of it before long regardless. There was a murder most foul committed last night in the neighbouring village. The local physician – Dr. Miller – was murdered in his house, his sister discovering his bloodied corpse in the morning hours."  
Mr. Pleasant turned his head to Lizzie, who had turned, again, somewhat pale.   
"Do not worry, Mr. Pleasant, this report does not incommodate me. I have known as much already."   
"But certainly, Madam, you cannot read minds, or see the future?"  
"No, Mr. Pleasant. But I can take a walk, and look down a hill, and see the Magistrate's coach arrive."   
She decided not to mention Ms. Miller, nor the blood, nor her shock upon seeing it.   
"Has the culprit already been apprehended?"  
Mr. Darcy responded: "Indeed he has. An unfortunate soul. A young man, healthy of body but weak of mind. A born lunatic, living with a poor widow in one of the Pemberley Estate cottages."  
"Oh indeed! And is there any evidence?" This interest in the sordid details of vice and crime was quite inappropriate at the dinner table.   
"It seems traces of blood were found near the cottage."   
"This is, indeed, a grave thing."


	3. It is a truth universally acknowledged...

that a married woman, in possession of a good brain, must be in want of something to occupy her mind.   
Elizabeth Darcy was happily married to the love of her life, that dark, proud stranger, that very eligible ex-bachelor with ten thousand a year. She had all the love, all the security, all the luxury she could dream of. But, more often than not, she was bored out of her wits.   
She dined with Darcy every evening, and breakfasted with him on most days. But between 11 and 18 she rarely saw him. Darcy, she had realized, might have an estate manager at his side, but nonetheless had many responsibilities regarding the estate and its many members. This, plus the social necessities among men, kept him busy most days. They often were in the same house, but in so different a sphere they hardly met.   
And the keeping of the household? Like Darcy had his estate manager at his side, she had the housekeeper. The housekeeper consulted her daily, to go through her plans for the next day's meals and to note down any special requests. Mrs. Reynolds had been part of this household since she was 14 years old, and had started in service as scullery maid. She had worked herself up within the household, reaching the highest position a woman in service could gain, managing money, having full control of the larder, and having more than a dozen of women and girls under her. Lizzie's household duties could easily be completed in the 15 minutes or so per day it took her to talk to Mrs Reynolds, to smile at her suggestions, and maybe to occasionally suggest one of her childhood favourites for days when there were no visitors expected.   
"And Cook suggests a strengthening jelly as dessert."   
"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds, that sounds excellent, and will probably be very welcome for our guest and his weak constitution."   
What else filled her life? Church, of course. Church twice on every Sunday. Half a day a week accounted for – and not too dully, as Darcy had been discerning in choosing on whom to bestow a living. 15 Minutes a day managing the household. Half a day per week spent on walking to and fro church.   
"Anything else, Madam?"  
And all those hours not accounted for? Handiwork. Piano. Taking walks. Reading books. Maybe taking a tour round the park in her phaeton with ponies. Visiting & receiving visitors. Oh god, so many visitors, and most of them as dull as they come. Writing letters to family. Charity work.  
"No, thank you, Mrs. Rey...."  
Charity work. Charity work. Charity work. CHARITY work. CHARITY...  
"Oh, actually, there is something. Please ask Cook to put together a few things for the Smiths. The usual."   
She could see the surprise on Mrs. Reynolds' face. Visits to poor parishioners were one of the obligations of the wife of the master of Pemberley. But there was method to this. A schedule of who was visited when. And today was not the right day. But the hint of a frown disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.   
"Of course, Madam."  
Lizzie needed exercise. Not only the exercise of walking, to bring colour to her cheeks, but also the exercise of the mind, to bring joy into her existence. And for a mind like hers, reading good books and making abstracts was just not enough. She needed something more. And this curious case might be the little something she needed.


	4. The bitterness at the bottom of the pie

The little phaeton and ponies had been her Aunt Gardiner's idea, long before she had been married, alas, even before she had been formally engaged! Lizzie had always been a great walker. It was good exercise for her, and afforded her plenty of time alone. There were so many things one could not do on one's own, lest it gave rise to speculation. Walking was not one of these things. An early morning walk was something an unmarried woman could do unchaperoned. And even a married woman might, on occasion, take a walk unaccompanied.  
Visiting cottagers was on the edge of what she could do on her own without tarnishing her reputation, and, in exchange, her husband's. Ideally, she would have taken a companion, or a poor but gentile neighbour, or some poor female relation living with them along. But right now, she was out of companions (she flat-out hated the idea!). Poor but gentile neighbours had to be asked at least a day in advance. And they were currently out of poor female relations (thank God for this! those poor creatures knew they depended on the good intentions of their well-off relations, and were so afraid to offend they tended to barely speak at all!). Fortunately, at least regarding the protection of her reputation and her husband's honour, Mrs. Smith was a widow, and the only adult son was currently in prison.  
"Madam, the ponies are ready."  
"Thank you, Susan."  
"And Cook says that the kitchen could not spare any broth today. She took the liberty to add a left-over pie instead."  
"Yes, thank you."  
Cook was a soft-hearted woman. And an excellent cook. If Cook had one defect, it was in underestimating her. Of course there was broth a plenty. There always was. A household such as Pemberley's always kept broth at hand, because it might be needed in an instant, to flavour a dish, or to offer to somebody who has fallen ill. Making broth was time consuming, and keeping the pot hot over hours used up more stove fuel than many families could afford. So, if somebody from the lower classes needed broth, they came to Pemberley, knocked at the kitchen door, and bought some. It was one of the many ways cooks earned some extra pin money. It's not as if she had ever seen this with her own eyes, but she had bought a little volume of the Organization of Great Households and had studied it carefully to prepare for her marriage.  
A loaf of bread and a container of broth was good to stave of hunger for one day. A pie was good to satisfy hunger, and to satisfy the soul on top. Much more useful to the Smith's in this context than broth.  
She took a look into the basket placed next to her after she had taken her seat in the phaeton. A loaf of bread. A large, day-old meat pie. Some vegetables from Pemberley's excellent Kitchen Garden that might not be perfect enough for the family table, but would have sufficed for the Servants' Hall without giving offence. A few potatoes and turnips from the root cellar.  
Cook had balanced her soft heart and her understanding of decorum. The basket was richer than normal, but not so extravagant as to create unease. 

When she knocked at the door of Knacker's Cottage, it was not Mrs. Smith who opened the door, but the weird missionary, Mr Pleasant!  
"Oh, Mr Pleasant! I did not expect you here!"  
"Please forgive my intrusion in your community's affairs, Madam. As you know, I am deeply invested into alleviating some of society's ills. I was moved by the story your husband told yesterday, I could not but visit this poor family and to share any comfort that the word of God can give."  
She politely nodded.  
"But don't let me hinder you from doing your own good works, Madam. I see that, while I have catered to the soul, you will cater to the body."  
She looked into his face, or what of his face was visible: Dark, blue glasses. Bits of shadow between scarf and hat. Some locks of – obviously fake – hair.  
"To the body of Christ's church. Please excuse me, Madam."  
He nodded to the oldest Miss Smith, and left.  
Would it be acceptable to offer him a ride back to Pemberley? He was a man of the cloth, but he, still, was a man.  
Mr. Pleasant coughed.  
A man, but a man in ill health. Who seemed unable to eat enough to keep body and soul together. She looked at his emaciated frame, at the excellent clothes than hung off of him like off a skeleton. His bone-like fingers in the excellent kid-leather gloves.  
She turned to the oldest Miss Smith. "Is your mother at home?"  
The girl was not yet 16. She would have been old enough to go into service – not in a house like Pemberley, but somewhere smaller, less discerning – but her work was needed at home. She was one more mouth to feed, but also a pair of hands more to cook, to clean, to take care of the younger kids, to help her mother with washing and sewing.  
"I'm sorry, Madam. She is not home right now."  
Behind her, a young boy was wailing. Then, another child joined in.  
"Please forgive them, Madam. They are hungry and confused."  
"I might not be able to alleviate their confusion, but maybe this will alleviate their hunger. Please give your mother my sympathies."  
The young woman looked at her, pained, but accepted the basket and turn to the kitchen table to empty it. Maybe she shouldn't have expressed her sympathies. After all, the brother wasn't yet convicted. There was hope still. And even if convicted, tcapital punishment might be likely, but not one hundred percent certain. Sometimes, the courts showed mercy. But then, was transportation really a mercy for a man like... what was his name again? She couldn't quite recall.  
Ms. Smith returned the basked, and the piece of cloth in which the pie had been wrapped.  
"Thank you, Madam."  
Lizzie nodded, smiled, and turned away.


	5. A dark and stormy phaeton ride

"Mr. Pleasant, may I offer you a ride back to Pemberley?"  
"I couldn't possibly accept, Mrs. Darcy." The missionary coughed heavily.  
"Please, I must insist."  
In the ten minutes the charity transaction had taken, the missionary had hardly made progress on his way back to the House. The distance between Knacker's Cottage and Pemberley was significant, and Mr. Pleasant did not look like walking this distance once had been a good idea. Walking it a second time seemed to go beyond his powers.  
Lizzie was wrecking her memory for some Bible verse that said something along the lines of "Before you kill yourself, accept a ride" or "Don't be a fool, accept help when you need it." But no such Bible verse came to mind.  
Maybe Mr. Pleasant had recalled a relevant Bible verse himself, as he stopped his refusal and accepted the seat next to her, taking the charity basket on his lap, coughing once more.  
"I trust you are an experienced driver?" he interrogated.  
"Mr Pleasant, I may be driving a phaeton, but I am not driving it in the manner of some young rakes. But I understand your concerns. Please, feel free to hold on to the carriage, in case my wild nature breaks out – or in case the ponies prove to be stallions."  
"I do trust the two ponies."  
"I see. So you do not wish to trust me?"  
This conversation was turning very weird very fast. But she wasn't worried. Mr. Pleasant was certainly a gentleman, yet, somehow, he was not quite a man. Maybe this was a consequence of his ill health. An invalid might technically be a man – yet, a woman would not have to fear being attacked by him in an indecent fashion. "Isn't it funny," Lizzie thought, "that I equate being a man with being able to attack and embarrass a woman? Isn't Darcy a man in every sense of the word, and yet unable morally to commit such a heinous crime?"  
"Dear Madam, I trust you as much as you do trust yourself."  
What did he mean? His words touched something, something deep inside her. Did she trust herself?  
"But, Madam, let's not talk about these questions of metaphysics. Let us talk about the unhappy family just before us."  
"The Smiths?"  
"Yes. I understand the oldest son was... unusual?"  
"Unusual? Yes, maybe that is a fitting word. He was, he is, quite unusual. He was healthy of body, but not of mind. Maybe he would have made a good student at your school of the demonically possessed."  
He frowned at her – or at least she assumed so. He couldn't see enough of his forehead to really see if he did frown or not.  
"I didn't know him as a child – I've only been living in Derbyshire for two years now. But it is said that, as a child, he didn't talk at all, and that when he finally learned to speak, he spoke like a preacher: Long sentences, flat intonations, full of quotes from the Bible and other books."  
"It seems people do not enjoy their preachers' speech."  
Lizzie decided to let this comment pass by without response.  
"He seemed harmless enough. He did what he was told by his mother, carrying things hither and tither, and doing simple chores around the house. But he walked around in a weird gait, never looking anybody in the eye, and forgetting even the simplest of curtseys."  
"In short, he was an impolite bloke."  
She assumed that 'bloke' must be some kind of Irish rural term for 'person'.  
"Did he make the impression of being a killer?"  
"A killer? I am yet to meet a man who looks like a killer. Yet, many men are. Looks deceive. Poor creatures can be driven to extreme measures."  
"And what could have driven him to the extreme measure of killing Dr. Miller?"  
It took some time for her to respond.  
"Dr. Miller was a physician of great renown, who corresponds with the greatest minds of science all across England and Wales. He occasionally visited the family, trying to help in so far as medicine could help in a case such as this. He did this from the goodness of his heart, not expecting any payment."  
"Did he do any... medical... interventions on the boy? Anything that could have... sparked anger?"  
"You overestimate my knowledge of family affairs, Mr. Pleasant."  
Lizzie gave the ponies free reign. This conversation was awkward, and she looked forward to its termination. The ponies sped up just a bit, barely making a difference.  
"Did you notice anything unusual during your visit?"  
Lizzie didn't understand what he was driving at. What was there to be unusual? The family was suffering, certainly. The young ones as unhappy as the older ones. The cottage was not in its usual state – tidy and clean – and the children had looked more ragged than usual, but this was to be expected under the circumstances.  
They could already see Pemberley when it happened. Maybe it was the speed, maybe her inattention, maybe a rock on the ground, or a puddle in the roads. Anyway, the phaeton jumped up an inch, and then turned to the side, seemingly preparing to tumble over. Lizzy could already see herself lie on the ground, in a tumble of arms and legs and phaeton parts.... when there was a blast of air, and the phaeton suddenly stabilized.  
She was not the most experienced driver, but this was... unusual. She took a look at Mr. Pleasant, to make sure he, too, was ok. She couldn't see his expression, but his body spoke for itself. He had both hands stretched out and his fingers splayed, like a man trying to avert his fate by a project of thoughts.  
She stared at him.  
"What did you do?"  
"What did I do? Nothing. I did absolutely nothing. The question you should ask instead is: Where was Mrs. Smith."  
"Where was Mrs. Smith?!?"  
"Good question," the strange missionary replied, "good question indeed!".


	6. A cup of tea

“James, we’ll have tea at the library,” Lizzie scowled.   
“Yes, Madam.”  
At Pemberley, there weren’t any neutral spaces. The drawing room was the women’s room, feminine and dainty, where men were welcomed after dinner as guests. The billiard room was strictly men only, the only women ever to venture into it did so in order to clean it, light the fire, or replace the candles. Everything ‘downstairs’ and the servants' quarters under the roof were places she could only go as a person wielding power, or as a blundering intruder. In her father’s home, which was much smaller than Pemberley, the library, was coded as a male space. Here, where there was a separate study for Darcy, a separate smoking room, and a whole range of buildings dedicated to horses and hunting and other manly things, the library was a male-ish space, but open to women. A good place to meet a man who was not part of the family, whom she could not ask into her own rooms on the floor above, and whom she did not want to ask into one of the flowery pastel feminine spaces. A place where she would not feel out of place, and yet a place that lent itself to business.   
She sipped her tea. So did he. In the silence of the library, filled only with the chinks of china and her own sounds of stirring tea and sipping tea, it was very noticeable how soundlessly he consumed his refreshments. She heartily bit into a sandwich finger. He moved the cup to where his lips might be, and when he put it down again, the amount of tea in it had diminished.   
The library was not a private place. If it had been, she could not have entertained a male guest therein. But tea was one of those meals that were brought in by servants, yet served by the women of the household. In other words, while there was never any guarantee of privacy, at least they were not supervised by a liveried servant standing behind each chair.   
“You are unusually interested in the little comings and goings of our small community here.”   
He tilted his head sideways, looking at her intently, though not impertinently.   
“And you are a very observant person,” she added  
“As it behoves a person of my profession.”   
“And please, what may your profession be?”  
There was a tone of mocking in his voice as he responded: “You know my profession. I try to use my powers to make this world a better place.”   
“And what may these powers be, may I ask?”  
“Oh, indeed. You may ask.”   
A pause. She took a biscuit, hungry after foregoing most of her morning meal yet again.   
“Then, let me ask: What are your powers?”  
“My powers are no different from yours.”  
“Do not mock me, Mr. Pleasant. My powers may not be equal to yours, but my powers of observation did not fail me today. What did you do!”  
“This, Madam, is a very general question.”   
“Why are we sitting here, having a cup of tea, and not lying in ditch, a pile of splintered bones under the phaeton, with the ponies walking through out blood and gore?”  
“Would you prefer blood and gore and splintered bones over refreshments in the library?”   
“What do you hide, Mr. Pleasant? What is the purpose of your trip? What do you hide under all these layers of cloth and shadows? Why don’t you eat or drink? Why do you concern yourself with the death of a doctor, the arrest of a simpleton?”  
“I am…”   
And he was interrupted by Susan, who had come to clear the tea things away.   
“I am, Madam, your most obedient servant. But please excuse me now. I have business to attend to.” With these words, and a courteous bow, he left the library.


	7. A second cup of tea

Lizzie was left behind in the library, speechless. This was one of the disadvantages of being a gentleman’s daughter: Her ability to verbalize outrage was limited by her reduced expressive vocabulary. Any sailor’s daughter, might she even be illiterate, would have outdone her, not to mention experts in expressive vocabulary like fishmongers’ wives or barkeeps. She sighed. Sighed as expressively as she could muster.   
“Madam, Ms. Darcy’s carriage has just arrived.”  
Georgiana was finally here! What good news! She had missed her sister-in-law! And with this Mr. Pleasant in the house, another woman with whom to converse would be a life saver! It would be much easier to keep up the façade of politeness with her around. And then, less than 24 hours from now, Pleasant’s visits would be over, and she would be rid from that unpleasant person.   
Unpleasant. In a delightfully horrifying way.   
What was wrong with her?   
Unpleasant. Unsuitable for polite company.   
Better. Much better. 

Georgiana Darcy did have her own establishment, where she lived, quietly and elegantly, with a woman companion. But Lizzie always encouraged her to view Pemberley as her second home, to visit as often and as long as possible.   
Georgiana’s first establishment – directly after leaving school – had been in Bath. She had been young, impressionable, and her first companion proofed to be of bad character. Wickham had nearly brought her ruin. Outwardly charming, entertaining, encouraging her in all those things women should not be encouraged in… Only in the last minute, the day before eloping, mere hours before stepping into a carriage to Gretna’s Green and her financial and social ruin, she had confided to her brother. Everything had been stopped. The companion fired, Wickham banned from the family circle. 

But Georgiana wasn’t fifteen anymore. She had matured. And had chosen a new companion who steered her interests into save channels. Georgiana’s new establishment was near Oxford, where she read voraciously, walked the countryside, and collected wild flowers. Sometimes Lizzie worried that Georgiana was on her way to become an old maid, cooped up all day with that curious old hag of a companion. But then, Georgiana spent two out of every six months at Pemberley, away from books, away from old hags, and with plenty of occasions to meet young male marriage material. And even should she never marry: It was poverty what made singlehood unbearable in old age. And Georgiana would never be destitute. 

It was time to step outside and welcome this most welcome guest. 

An hour later, Georgiana and Lizzie sat in the drawing room, watching the sun go down. They talked about this and that, about travel and the roads and the weather; about dresses made, dresses worn, dresses discarded; about letters written and received, about old acquaintances and new neighbours. Lizzie had tea brought up – how good to be able to have tea twice in an afternoon, without living beyond one’s means! – and chatted easily with her favourite – and only – sister in law.   
“Any houseguests? Do I need to look good for dinner?”  
“You always look good for dinner! But yes, we have a houseguest. But… not one worth making yourself overly attractive for.”  
“I see. Young and dashing but poor like a church mouse?”  
“Not young, not dashing. A bit like a church mouse, but a church mouse with the best tailor of Saville Row. He’s a missionary from Ireland.”   
“An elegant missionary? I am intrigued?”  
Lizzie had to bite her tongue. Even after all these years, it was not a good idea to make jokes about intriguing but dangerous men in Georgiana’s presence.   
“Intrigued… Maybe. I am… worried. No… concerned… He is a strange man, Georgiana. He is not what he pretends to be.” And then, Lizzie spilt out all that had been happened in the last two days.   
“What was his name, again?”  
“Pleasant.”   
“And he’s from Ireland?”  
“Yes. From Dublin.”  
“And wears excellent suits?”  
“The best. You know him?”  
“Skinny?”  
“Like a skeleton. Georgiana… Do you have a prior acquaintance with this man?”  
“Oh no, absolutely not.”   
“Georgiana!”  
“I have never met such a man in my life.”  
“Georgiana!!”  
“Indeed I have not. Your description just reminds me of…. ghost stories I’ve once heard.”   
“Ghost stories?”  
“Yes. Very old ghost stories,” she rubbed a small mole she had on her left wrist. “Very, very old ghost stories.” 

She finished her tea, then went up to her room to write a letter.


	8. The fire of knowledge

Dinner went surprisingly well. Darcy involved Mr. Pleasant in a lengthy discourse about the welfare system, keeping him busy, and allowing Georgiana and Lizzie to watch and observe.   
“We take poor relief very seriously here at Pemberly, as does the town of Lambdon, and nobody suffers hunger undeservedly. But I do see than in other areas of the country, where the need is large and the community poor, not every deserving poor receives the help they need. Christian charity is without limits, but the town coffers are not.”   
“And what about vagrants? If I understand correctly, English law allows men to receive relief only in the town of their birth. Those that returned from the war unable to work, those that moved across the country to seek work and got injured, they fall through the cracks of the system,“ commented Mr. Pleasant, in between moving food around on his plate.  
“This is, unfortunately, the case. For the individual, who just tried to do their duty or better their life, who undeservedly falls upon bad times, this law is harsh. Yet, for the townspeople, paying for some stranger’s upkeep when you yourself have barely enough to keep body and soul together, seems unreasonable. We do take care of our poor, but we cannot take care of other towns’ poor. What would happen otherwise? Each town would send its poor to the neighbour’s town, and on and on again. This way, we care for our own, and only for our own. And this we take very serious. For example, Lambdon has been maintaining a Sunday School since by Grandfather’s time, so that even the poorest children learn their catechism, and to read and write and count.”  
“Is Sunday School free to all children then?”  
“Of course it is, even to the poorest, who cannot even contribute wood to fire the stove in winter. Every able child receives instruction.”  
Georgiana glanced at Lizzie, turned to her, and whispered: “Matthew Smith – the unfortunate oldest son of Mrs. Smith? He had wanted to go to school, too. He was turned down, even though he had always been so interested in the Bible and the sermons.”  
“And how is it decided which child is able and which is not?”   
“Oh, but what a curious question, Mr. Pleasant. Is not it obvious which child can learn, and which child will not?”  
“Such as the oldest son of Mrs. Matthew.”  
“Exactly. Why waste everybody’s time, why make life difficult for the poor lad, when it cannot lead to success? He can learn in the home: How to carry wood. How to fetch water. Every loving mother will find ways to instruct even the weakest member of her family to become useful in their own way.”   
“He actually learned to read,” Georgiana whispered to Lizzie. “One of his sisters, Lucy, taught him.”   
Lizzie stared at her.   
“The Smiths do not seem to be the kind of family that have books at hand with which to teach a boy to read.”   
“I had grown out of needing my own Primer, and as there was no younger brother or sister who would need it… I may have… lost it, somewhere, accidentally… Lucy returned it three months later, by which time Matthew knew every page by heart. And of course they have a family bible.”  
The better she got to know Georgiana, and the more her sister-in-law trusted her, the more she learned about her that she would have never expected from that shy young woman she met when she first visited Pemberley. What a sly girl she must have been!   
“The women of the house seem to disagree with your assessment, Mr. Darcy!”  
“Oh, not in the least, “ responded Lizzie, quickly, taking up her role as host and trying to deescalate. “We certainly all differ in what and how we learn. For some children, private instruction in the home might be more efficient than the local Sunday School.”   
Lizzie actually believed this to be true. What child would be able to learn at a school where the schoolmaster did not want it to attend, considering it a hindrance, an annoyance, and unable to develop and grow? But she left out the second part of the argument – this would have counteracted her intention to deescalate.   
“How do you, Mr. Pleasant, select which pupils to take under your tutelage? What talents and gifts do you expect, or do you take any student who has a need?”  
“Our establishment is yet a very small one. Most of our students, as soon as they are old enough, are apprenticed out to trustworthy members of the community, where they can learn a craft.”   
A smile seemed to hush over Georgiana’s face.   
“So, you would accept any student, even without a spark of talent?”  
“A spark of talent I do, indeed, expect. A flame of talent not necessarily.”  
Georgiana turned her eyes to the plate before her – out of embarrassment, or to hide a grin?   
Dessert was served: a sweet soup, a choice made to discreetly cater to the special dietary needs of their guest, who only ever consumed liquids – if this may even be called ‘consuming’.   
“A flaming speech you are giving, Mr. Pleasant. You are obviously burning to feed the flames of education,” Lizzie quipped.   
“I hope so, Madam. Education is elemental, is it not?”  
If she hadn’t known better, she would have betted that Georgiana had to stifle a giggle.


	9. A circle of silence

“What will happen to that poor family now, to the Smiths?” Georgiana asked, after the women had withdrawn to the drawing room.   
“Your brother will know this better than I do, but I assume he will wait in prison for a few months, till the next assizes. Then there will be the process, and then…”  
“And then…”  
“His execution. “  
“But is it certain? Is there no hope?”  
This afternoon, sitting still while her hair was fixed for dinner, Lizzie had listened to her maid Susan for half an hour, sharing all the village gossip about Dr. Miller’s death. He hadn’t just been killed.. He had been disassembled. Bits and pieces of his corps had been found all his study. This hadn’t just been a murder. This was the act of a madman.   
“There is no hope, I am afraid.”   
“You visited the family? Have you spoken to his mother?”  
“His mother was not at home.”   
“Not at home?” Georgiana was surprised at this, as had Mr. Pleasant been when he himself had visited the family.   
“This worries you? Are you concerned that Mrs. Smith might… do something rash? I consider it highly unlikely, she still has to take care of all the other children.”

The men joined them soon after. In some houses, after formal dinners, men stayed for hours to drink and smoke, before joining the women in the drawing room. Here at Pemberley, Darcy always seemed to reign in the worst excesses, but still, when there were shared interests in dogs and horses, in carriages or crops, it would usually be some time before the men joined them. Today, they had barely taken time to drink a whisky – or maybe a whiskey, to honour the Irish guest. 

Mr Pleasant walked to the fire, to warm his cold bones. A person of so frail a constitution must certainly have need of some additional warmth. Georgiana walked over to him, engaging in polite chit chat about the roads in Ireland: “The roads from Dublin to Roarhaven are terrible, I have heard.” Mr. Pleasant made an unusual gesture, and suddenly the fire roared up. A gush of wind, certainly. The fire covered all sounds of their conversation. Even after the fire had calmed down a bit, their conversation was curiously hushed, even though they did not seem to whisper. But trying to overhear a conversation was not done. She turned to her husband, to ask him about the local magistrate. He, it turned out, was old, strict and unforgiving. He happily doled out the death penalty for poaching, and was smug about it afterwards. Indeed, no hope. Poor Mrs. Smith! 

They all retired early.


	10. A bit of fresh air

Lizzie hated mornings. She had never been much of a morning person, but at the moment, it was worse than usually. But she had to get up, and get dressed. In fashionable houses – and Pemberley certainly belonged into this category – breakfast was served late in the morning, and she could have lied in. But she had an appointment with Georgiana to take a refreshing morning walk in the Park. Exercise was so important to maintaining good health – and taking a walk gave them privacy.   
In this time of the year, the shrubbery was not the most attractive place it could be, but a stroll around the lake always afforded views that made it worth it. She was nearly looking forward to it – if she just did not feel quite as nauseous! 

“Oh, please excuse me.” Lizzie turned to the side of the path, her body heaving under a desire to expel some noxious food, though she had not yet eaten anything. She barely avoided vomiting.   
“Lizzie, you are ill! Let’s get back to the house, and call Dr. Mil… and call the pharmacist.”   
“I am fine, really I am. I am just not feeling well in the mornings. It dissipates after breakfast.”   
Georgina looked at her. “You’ve lost weight.”   
“I don’t think so. It is just this dress, it needs to be taken in a bit. I’ll ask Cook to send up a small glass of Port for me for breakfast. That’s what my Mom always asked for when she was feeling unwell. Did work for her like magic.”   
Georgiana frowned. “Maybe… this is not the right kind of magic for you.” She rummaged in her reticule. “Try this.”   
“Tea leaves?”  
“Yeeees…. Put one on your tongue. It will help with the nausea. And it will be better for… for you than a glass of port.”   
“Ms. Darcy, have you become so desperate of finding a husband that you are turning to becoming some pharmacist’s wife? I have to let you down, the pharmacist at Lambdon is married with half a dozen kids, and he’s not even good looking.”   
Georgiana tried to smile. “I am not man hunting.”   
The leaf didn’t taste at all like tea. But Lizzie’s nausea started to subside.   
“You have no need to go man hunting. You are a woman of independent means.”   
“I don’t think I have an inclination for man hunting anyway.”   
Now it was Lizzie’s turn to stop and to look at her in a serious fashion.   
“I just think there is so much to learn and to discover. And being a married woman…”  
“Being a married woman may keep you from collecting herbs and playing witch?”  
Georgiana did not respond. 

“Lizzie, have you ever thought about the things that you are truly good at?”  
“Like playing the piano?”  
“I’m serious, Lizzie.”   
“Drawing? Reciting poetry?”  
“Be serious, please. Have you ever noticed that there is something that you are truly good at?”  
“Snark.”  
“Why are you so good at snark?”  
“I am quick-witted and good with words?”  
“Yes, but this is not what makes you snarky.”  
“I look at people and see how they truly are. How ridiculous they are. How petty. How small minded. How focused on their own little needs.”  
“I am good with… plants, the same way you are good at seeing the person behind the mask.”   
Lizzie did not respond. 

When they were nearing the house, Lizzie added: “Well, if you have to turn into a wicked old woman, gathering herbs and brewing potions, then so be it. You are rich enough to afford it, and wise enough not to embarrass your family.” And after a short hesitation, she continued: “These leafs are wonderful by the way! They work like magic!”


	11. Something fishy

Lizzie helped herself to a tiny helping of Kedgeree, and some toast. She had discovered that Cook had learned this recipe at her former employer, a military man who had served in India and developed a taste for curries and such. Even if her nausea had been greatly reduced, rice with fish and eggs sounded a bit too rich for her stomach.   
Darcy had important business to attend to, so he had only joined for a few minutes, to wish his guest a save trip onwards, and had then excused himself. 

“Mr. Pleasant, now that you are getting ready to leave this house, how about enjoying breakfast with a side of explanation?” Lizzie commented, while pouring him a second cup of tea – the only thing he partook of.   
Mr. Pleasant looked at Lizzie, then at Georgiana, then back at Lizzie. “What explanation exactly do you require?”  
“If my special skill is snark, then your special skill is evasion.”  
“This may, or may not, be the case.”

A dish clattered, as an inexperienced girl failed to put down the fresh plate of toast the way she had been taught. 

“What will be your next stop on your trip through England?” Georgiana inquired, changing the topic.   
“It seems, Mr. Pleasant, that you are not alone in evading answering questions. It appears that you have a worthy assistant in this,” Lizzie said, glancing at Georgiana.   
What was happening here? Hadn’t Georgiana just told her that she had no intentions to run after men? Why then this interest in a sickly stranger? What else, beyond pity or misunderstood affection, could connect her with this missionary? But if they had an understanding, when was it created? Certainly not overnight. Georgiana might have been a foolish girl once, but even then, she was not THAT foolish. 

“Mr. Pleasant. Please state your intentions,” Lizzie demanded, rather irately.  
“My intentions, Madam, are purely honourable.”   
“But what, Mr. Pleasant, are these intentions?”   
“My intentions are to find the true murderer of Dr. Miller, and to save the innocent life of young Matthew Smith.”  
Silence.   
“You believe Matthew Smith to be innocent.”  
“Indeed I do.”  
“And you want to identify the murderer?”  
“Indeed I do.”  
“Mr Pleasant, you are not a missionary.”  
“I am, Madam, a man on a mission. And part of this mission is to protect the life of Matthew Smith, and to give him access to a good education. An education that covers more than learning to read.”


	12. The skull beneath the skin

“So, Mr Pleasant, where ARE you headed next?” she repeated her question that had remained unanswered.   
“I am travelling to Kympton.”  
“Kympton?!” Lizzie asked, surprised.  
“Yes. It is a lovely town, mere 15 miles from here. Very convenient by stagecoach. The road has recently been Macadamized, it seems.”  
“What is your business in Kympton?”   
“My visit is purely social in nature. It appears that the current Curate’s brother was a good friend and colleague of mine.”  
“I think the family knows the curate… Bartlett?” suggested Georgiana.  
“Yes, this is, indeed, his name. Theophile Bartlett. His brother was Phileas Bartlett.”  
“This visit has been planned for a long time?”  
“Oh, indeed not, Madam. I just realized the acquaintance while looking through a copy of the New Itinerary. He had mentioned his brother, and Kympton, I just hadn’t realized the town would be so near Pemberley.”

The butler interrupted, bringing in the day’s mail. Lizzie had received a letter from Mary, probably full of religious exhortations. Her upcoming marriage to a bald and boring parson was the best thing that had ever happened to her – but it made her letters intolerably dull.   
Georgiana, too, had received a letter. She opened it, read it quickly, then handed it to… Mr Pleasant. 

“Ah, yes. Interesting. So our theory about the mother can be considered confirmed?”  
Georgiana nodded. 

“Mr Pleasant,” Lizzie raised her voice, just barely. “I think you need to hurry, or you will miss the stagecoach.”   
“Yes indeed, it is getting time to leave. Thank you for your hospitality, Madam.” He stood up, hinted at a bow, ready to leave. The next words were spoken while he was already walking away from the table and out of the room. “And, by the way, I did not lie when I said that my powers are no different from yours. Or at least not in the essentials. My powers and your powers tap the same source. They allow me to steady a carriage…”  
“and me to see the skull beneath the skin.”   
“Exactly,” he said, and turned his face to her, for one last time. And for a second, or part of second, she felt as if a skull had just grinned at her.


	13. Sewing anger

Lizzie knew two dozen ways to decline an offer – from the barest hint of a ‘unfortunately the current conditions do not permit’ to a straightforward ‘how do you muster the sheer impertinence of daring to ask?’. But, alas, her words betrayed her yet again. She considered fainting. But then she had never really mastered the fine art of heart palpitations and dizziness fits, though her mother, certainly, had been a very engaging teacher. So she calmed herself down.   
“Georgiana, we need to…”  
“find Mrs Smith.”  
“-…talk”  
“We may talk, if you so desire. But we also need to find Mrs. Smith.”  
“Georgiana, I understand. You are interested in plants. You have been trying different plants. Some one or other has some deleterious effect on your mind. I am certain Dr. Mil… the pharmacist could help…”   
“I am not a lunatic, Lizzie.”   
“I did not wish to imply that you were.”   
“Nor have I fallen to the lure of overconsuming psychotropic plant to dull my dread of dreary human existence.”   
“I did not wish to imply that either.”  
“So, you agree? We should find Mrs. Smith?”  
“I said nothing of the sort! Georgiana, what is wrong with you?”  
“Absolutely nothing is wrong with me. A lot of things were wrong for a very long time. But not anymore.”   
“This man, he exerts a negative influence on you…”  
“Humbug! I barely know that man.”  
“But obviously, you and he have…”  
“Something in common, yes. But it is not what you think.”   
“We need to talk! You need to see a doctor! Or a priest! Or your brother!”  
“I need to see nobody of that sort. I only need to see an inexperienced seamstress.”  
“Please?”  
“Lizzie, you’ve lost loads of weight. Your dress needs to be taken in. I am certain your ladymaid is too busy right now? So, why don’t you just send message to the Smith’s, asking if Miss Lucy Smith is available to do some simple sewing for a day or two.”  
“Miss Lucy Smith?!”  
“Exactly. The Smiths need money. You need your dress taken in. I need information.”  
“I need a glass of brandy.”   
“No, Lizzie, you do not. You need a nice cup of tea, and you need to send a message to the Smith’s.


	14. An old friendship

He hated stagecoaches! Oh how he hated stagecoaches! He hated the crowdedness, the smell, the PEOPLE. He hated the inefficient system. He hated having his bones shaken up by every rock in England. Horses, he had no problem with. Walking, he was fine with. But stagecoaches! Stagecoaches!   
Unfortunately, it was important that people saw him arrive in Kympton in the usual way, as just another boring visitor. If you were a curate’s guest, you did not sneak in at night, you travelled by private coach if you were rich, and by stagecoach if you weren’t.   
Well, he could have very well just bought a coach-and-four, and not felt much poorer for it, but this would have made him conspicuous. And it never did any good to a detective to be too conspicuous.   
So, here he sat, in a crammed-full stagecoach, opposite a young girl sent off to start in service, a man with only one arm and one ear, but two angry, staring eyes, and next to an elderly lady petting a black chicken, worrying about his favourite hat getting crumpled up. He was a long way from Dublin, and, hence, a long way from his favourite tailor. Ah, well, he had no alternative, if he was not to endanger his friend’s cover. And he and Reginald Matthew Levi George Ruben Phileas Theophile Bartlett had been friends for a very, very long time. Such friendship certainly was well the hassle, wasn’t it?   
I ignored the young girl, the angry man, the insane woman, and gave his scarf a careful tuck to see it was all in place.   
The stagecoach stopped, and the driver shouted something bisyllabic. Based on the number of syllables and the general dreariness of the prospect visible through the window he had to assume that he, finally, had reached his destination.   
His slender body made it fairly easy to extricate himself from the carriage. “Where’s the parsonage?” he inquired, and got walking, as soon as the delivery of his light luggage had been arranged. 

 

The parsonage was small, but extremely well kept. Perfect for a confirmed bachelor Phileas. He knocked.   
“Yes? Please?”  
“Phileas, don’t you recognize and old friend?”  
“Skulduggery? Yes, indeed, it must be you! You haven’t changed a bit!”  
“Nor am I likely to. You, on the other hand…”  
“Yes, I realize that the years have been less kind to my skin than to your bones. But come in, come in! And please, call me Theorphile!”  
“Of course, Phileas, of course. And call me Pleasant.”


	15. Letting down the façade

Skulduggery Pleasant did not profit from the fire his friend stoked up. Nor from the tea in the cup his friend had pressed upon him. He knew it, and Reginald-Matthew-Levi-George-Ruben-Phileas-Theophile knew it. But as his friend knew of no other way to show to him how welcome he was in his home, Skulduggery gladly accepted them as tokens of friendship. Better than having a friend who insisted on hugging! And once the housekeeper had left and they were on their own, he was at least able to take off his makeshift façade: The scarf and whig and such designed to take attention from his actual face, or what was left of it.   
“How good to see you, old friend. But, was takes you to my humble parsonage?”  
“I’m here for a social visit, of course.”   
“Oh yes, of course. Who did kill whom?”  
“Somebody killed Dr. Miller, over at Lambton.”  
“Dr. Miller? Was he one of us?”  
“No, but his presumed murderer might have been. The young Matthew Smith.”   
“Smith? The idiot?”  
“Yes.”   
“Not every weird-acting person is a sorcerer.”  
“Indeed not,” Skulduggery responded, thinking about how many of his fellow sorcerers were, indeed, deserving of the epithet. “His mother is one of the Oxford-Smiths.”  
“One of the Oxford Smiths? And she lives in such squalor?”  
“It seems her family did not agree with her marrying a mortal.”   
“Understandably so… But can he have inherited her magic? After all, he’s not exactly… uhm… gifted in other ways?”  
“While we sorcerers tend to treat magic like an academic discipline, it does not require this approach. Witches do quite well with their magic without the same degree of studying. It takes study to refine our magic, but the basic ability is innate.”   
“But if he’s untrained, there’s no real reason for you to investigate, is there? He won’t be powerful enough to escape, will he?”  
“If he’s an Oxford Smith’s son, it is impossible to determine how much power he may have, even untrained and unaware. But then, I am sceptical he actually is the murderer. And if he isn’t, I want to know who framed him, and why.”   
“And why exactly is it YOU that is investigating? Since when does the Irish Sanctuary interfere in rural England’s petty crime?”   
“Let’s just say that the local Sanctuary seems to be busy.”   
“Busy? In what way?”  
“Busy Plotting war.”


	16. Needlework

Miss Lucy Smith was a meek girl. Or, maybe, a meek woman, as she was fully grown. Lizzie had instructed her in what needed to be done, and she had set out to do it. A little taking in at the waist, for one or two of Lady Darcy’s simpler dresses. A girl like Miss Smith was fully capable of sewing her own clothing, and to take some simple sewing in, but she would not be trusted with the more expensive muslins or the more complicated garments that could be found in the wardrobe of Darcy’s wife.   
“This one is urgent, it would be a great goodness if you could do this one right here.”   
This was wrong, wrong, wrong! First, Elizabeth would not need to hire a seamstress for such simple matters. Susan was responsible for her wardrobe, and would do any small alterations and repairs: taking in at the waist, fixing a seam, adding a button. It was part and parcel of her work. A great house such as Pemberley was like a living organism. Delegating work that belong to one of its members to another member, or even an outsider, was like telling the stomach to stop digesting, and instead to produce blood or to ponder philosophy: It was setting oneself up to unnecessary disturbances.   
Secondly, if outside help was required, there was no need to keep the poor girl here. Where would she work? She would be in everybody’s way.   
Georgiana was certainly aware of all this. She had grown up in Pemberley. She knew the house better than Elizabeth did, though she had never been its mistress. When Lizzie had first met her, her manners were excellent, though, due to Georgiana’s natural shyness, they had stopped short of perfection. Her sister in law certainly knew that her behaviour was odd.   
Lucy took the necessary measures, and started to work.   
“Certainly,” Lizzie thought, “Georgiana will use this opportunity to milk her for information.” Why else would she construct this silly situation? But, alas, Georgiana seemed utterly unconcerned with their ‘guest’! “Let’s go for a walk in the shrubbery, shall we, Lizzie?”   
“Oh, naturally,” Lizzie responded.   
They had already reached the door, when Georgiana commented: “Oh dear, I’ve forgotten my smelling salts!” and ran back to the table with her reticule on it. Lizzie could see her rummaging through it, retrieving a little bottle, opening it and.. leaving it on the table, hidden behind a fold of the little pineapple-shaped bag. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s go!” And she dragged Lizzie out of the room.   
“What is this all about?” she demanded to know once they were out of hearing range. “What are you talking about, dearest Lizzie?” “Georgiana, I may be approaching four and twenty, but my sight is still to be depended upon. What game are you playing?”  
“I am not playing a game, Lizzie.”  
“If it is not a game, then, I beg you, what is it?”


	17. Mortal love

Phileas-Theo was having his fourth cup of tea, and his sixth biscuit. Being a parson afforded him a good life – and it showed in the circumference of his belly.   
Somebody knocked on the window. Skulduggery turned around, realizing that an older man was standing just outside the cottage, smiling and waving at his host, who smiled back. Skulduggery turned his face away as quickly as he could, realizing that he was not masking the fact that, indeed, his face was just a skull, with a set of very fine teeth.   
“Don’t worry. It’s … my gardener.”  
“Your gardener? His face seems somewhat familiar…”   
“Oh yes, I think you’ve met him before. His name is Simon.”   
“Simon? Your… special friend? He followed you here?”  
“Yes. I can leave everything and everybody behind each time I start a new life. But… this is something special.”   
“He’s a mortal! Does he know that you are….”  
“Yes, he is. And yes, he knows. And he’s in his early fifties now. Maybe he’ll live for another ten or twenty years. Thirty, if I am lucky.”  
“And then he will die.”  
“Yes, he will. But those ten or twenty or thirty years, he will make me happy. And, hopefully, I will make him happy.”   
“Relationships between sorcerers and mortals rarely work out in the long term…”  
“I know. Mortals die, sorcerers live for centuries. So what? He’s been the joy of my life for twenty years. I am grateful for every single day. He will age, he will get weaker and weaker, and then he will die.”  
“And you will perform his funeral rites.”  
“Yes.”  
Silence crept between the two friends. It was Skulduggery who spoke first.   
“I want to pay my respects to the late Dr. Miller. In private. Before the funeral.”  
“I understand.”  
“Can you arrange this?”  
“If anybody can arrange this, it’s me. Lambton’s parson is a secret drunkard. I know, and he knows that I know. He won’t dare to notice anything amiss. And the undertaker, old Crankberry, only makes sure there’s a hole in the ground, and that a box of the right size goes into that hole. If you want to see the body, you can see the body.”


	18. Grave robbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A corpse, and a theological debate.

“Tell me,” Skulduggery said, while he opened the elegant wooden coffin using a slightly rusted crowbar, “why do you work as a parson, if you don’t believe in god?”  
“Who says I don’t believe in god?”  
The corpse was dressed in impeccable white clothes. No expenses spared, it seemed. The body itself, what – three days or so after murder – was not impeccable. Based on Phillies facial expression, the smell must have been pretty overwhelming. Fortunately, lacking a nose, Skulduggery also lacked olfactory perception. He couldn’t smell a rose – or a rotting corpse.   
“I’ve known you for, what, over a century? I’ve heard you speak about the Faceless Ones. And, we fought together. I’ve watched you face death. You shat your pants in fear – but you did not pray.”   
“Please, refrain from reminding me of past bathroom accidents.”   
“Don’t worry. I’ve been part of the Dead Men. I saw more people shit their pants during the war than I care to remember. I’d probably have done the same, on one or two occasions, if I had had excrement producing organs and a sphincter with which to shit myself.”   
The stench must have gotten worse, according to Phileas’ facial expression. No surprise, as Skulduggery was now handling the body, removing the white dress-like thingie they put on dead people, to better see the savagery inflicted on the late Dr. Miller’s body.   
“Doesn’t look like knife wounds to me!” the parson commented, “Not that I’d seen many of those.”  
“Nor like burns,” he added, though his knowledge of burns was even more limited.   
“It looks,” Skulduggery added, “like a person with too much power and too little control…exploded”   
Philly turned away for a moment, to vomit.   
The body was crisscrossed by signs of… something. Energy, for lack of words. It was… a bit like a sliced onion, but with enough of the corpse still intact to hold it all together. Skulduggery dug his bones – he had safely stored away his excellent kid gloves in his pocket for the duration. They were Bespoke ones, perfect ones, and he didn’t wish to spoil them. You could always wash bones – but leather was a bit more touchy.   
“Let’s return to my original question. Why do you work as parson, if you don’t believe in god? Is it just for the meat and potatoes, for the tea and biscuits, for the status and recognition?”  
“I’m probably a terribly sorcerer,” the parson responded.  
“Probably. But what makes you admit it?”  
“Because, deep down, I believe in ritual more than I believe in scholarship.”  
“You mean…”  
“If you imagine a continuum of magical folks, that starts with ‘sorcerer’ and stops at ‘witch’, I am somewhere in between. We sorcerer overthink stuff. I believe rituals help people achieve goals.”   
“Even if these rituals are meaningless in themselves?”  
“If they help you achieve a goal, they are not meaningless.”   
“So, by providing funeral rites to Simon, the day he dies…”  
“I provide closure for myself.”   
“So, you do not believe in god?”  
“Of course not. But I believe god can be a helpful fiction. People like you, they don’t need that fiction. But people like me…”   
“The person who did this wasn’t an elemental. It looks more like a gist was at work.”   
“But gists are rare.”   
“They are. And if you’ve seen one gist, you’ve seen only one gist. This might have been a gist, or something totally different. But one thing we know for certain.”  
“And that is?”  
“The killer was not a mortal.”


	19. A healthy glow

“You still don’t understand…”  
“Are you f….. engaging in carnal sin with that Mr. Pleasant?”  
“Most certainly not.”  
“Are you a habitual user of substances?”  
“Most certainly not.”  
“What is wrong with you?”  
“Nothing is wrong with me.”  
“What has happened to the lovely but shy Georgiana I met when I first visited Pemberley?!?”  
“She grew up, and now knows who and what she is.”   
“And what, pray tell me, are you?”  
Georgiana looked at her, quizzically, as if asking herself if she could trust her sister-in-law.   
“You’ve read Castle of Udolpho.”   
“Of course. Everybody has.”   
“It’s all about dark powers, secrets, mysteries….”   
“Obviously.”  
“But, in the end, there’s no mystery left. It’s all.. evil people doing evil things using natural means.”  
“Exactly.”   
“I loved Castle of Udolpho. But I hated the end. Because, even back then, I knew: Dark powers are real.”   
“So… you are afraid of these powers?”  
“No, Lizzie. I use them.”   
“Have you sold your soul to the devil?”  
“I haven’t yet encountered the devil. I have been told my soul gives a lovely red glow. I have most certainly not sold it, nor lost it in any other way. ”  
“It’s your companion She has a bad influence on you!”  
“My companion? No… Other companions might have had a bad influence on me in the past…”   
This touched on forbidden territory. She was not to discuss anything related to Wickam.   
“She’s an evil witch! She is manipulating you!”  
“She is not evil. And she is not manipulating me. By the way, she will be joining us at Pemberley.”  
“What?!?”  
“I invited her, when I sent my last letter. I expected that she would be welcome at Pemberley?”  
“Of course…” Lizzie mumbled, “of course….”  
“She might, actually, teach you a thing or two. But let’s go to the library now, and waste some time. We could re-read the first chapters of the Castle of Udolpho. Or maybe The Monk?”  
“Why, I pray, do we need to waste time by reading gothic novels?”  
“Because my magic needs more time to take its toll on its poor victim. Now, hush, let’s go and read.”


	20. Companionship

Companions were a special breed of spinsters: Women of good families, who had fallen on hard times. Socially, they were equals, or at least near equals. Practically, they were dependents, who traded their birth and breeding for a roof over their heads and three square meals a day.   
The typical companion was slight of figure, pale and quiet, but healthy and without fuss. Had an appropriate amount of education and not too many opinions that could get in her way. Was good enough looking not to embarrass, but not too good looking to sow seeds for jealousy. If they could sing, or play the piano, or draw, their market value would increase, and they might be a bit picky in their choice of household.   
Nobody could quite explain how somebody like Ms. Rootbody had become the companion of Georgiana Darcy. Her face would certainly not evoke jealousy, nor did the rest of her physick. She was well-bread, and of impeccable reputation – but this fact was not reflected in her conversation or overall bearing. Her dress, her hairstyle, the way she moved and sat and turned her head, all seemed to stem from another century, or at least another country. She did not quite belong into society such as this.   
At the same time, there was something like royalty about her. It was very difficult to point to what exactly it was that distinguished her. Maybe it was just that she did not seem to care what other people thought of her. Other people, with the exception of Georgiana. She clearly was attached to her, though more like a teacher to their pet student, than as a companion to the person who paid their upkeep.   
Lizzie found it difficult not to stare at the wart on her nose and count the dark hairs sprouting from it. 

“The Smith boy returned the sewing,” the maid reported. “The housekeeper paid him.”   
“Excellent, thank you.” 

Poor Miss Smith! When she and Georgiana had returned from their trip to the library, the strain she must be under had shown quite clearly. The disarray her family’s household was under was certainly taking its toll on her. She had stopped sewing, and was staring into nothingness. She would have called the maid, to bring her a glass of water, but Georgiana had stopped her. Wordlessly, she had walked to the little table where here ridicule lay, and then to one of the large windows, opening it wide. Then she had addressed the poor girl, asking her one question about her family after the next. Had the brother behaved unusually before the murder? Had there been traces of blood on his clothing? On his shoes? On the door? On any furniture? Did he hold a grudge against the doctor? Did anybody else in his family hold a grudge against the doctor? Where was her mother?  
Lizzie was shocked by Georgiana’s behaviour, but not as shocked as by the fact that poor Lucy Smith responded to each in turn, calmly, nearly drowsily, like a sleepwalker, or a woman who had taken too much of a nerve-soothing draught.   
The brother had been a little agitated the day before the murder. Full of nervous energy. But not aggressive. There had been blood on his hands and shirt, but just a little, and no blood on his shoes, as far as she had seen. There was some blood on the door, and the kitchen table, and the kitchen sink, but only smears, not drops or splatters.   
Had Georgiana given laudanum to the poor girl? But no, how could she have – Lucy Smith had not consumed a drop of liquid or a morsel of food in their presence.   
The doctor? Nobody held a grudge against him. He had been a great benefactor to the whole family. Had treated little Winnie when she had been so terribly ill last winter, even though they had not been able to pay him then and there. And had taken special in Matthew and his well-being. He had read about people like Matthew in one of his big medical books, he had told them. And he had even written letters to town to inquire about any help that may be available for somebody like him.   
Lizzie would never forget the widened, staring eyes of Lucy, nor the musty smell that permeated the whole room.   
Her mother? She didn’t know where her mother was. She was gone. She didn’t know when she would be coming back. She didn’t tell them.   
Probably Mrs. Smith had tried to escape the shame and humiliation of being known as having a murderer as son. She, too, had wanted to ask a question. But she was afraid that it would instil even more fear in the poor girl. “Could your mother have killed herself?” No, she would not infect the young woman with an idea like this.   
Then Georgiana had packed the unfinished dress, and a second one that needed taking in, carefully in a basket, fussing about it to a degree quite inappropriate. Wouldn’t a simple paper wrapping have been enough? 

“Oh!” Georgiana said, interrupting Lizzies reverie. “Can you return the basket to me, Lizzie? I am afraid I have need for it.”   
“Of course you can. I’ll have the maid return it to you.”   
“I can fetch it right now, if you don’t mind. I have rather… urgent need of it…” she spoke, and her companion grinned.


	21. Pet student

“Oh well done, well done indeed!” Her ugly face blossomed in pride, as she lifted the little geometrical object, made from twigs and branches and dried flowers and bits of thread, from the bottom of the basket.   
“Thank you! Did I do it correctly?”  
“Yes, oh yes indeed! The left branch is a bit loose, but that’s all right. It looks to me as if it should have worked. When will you listen to it? This night?”  
“Yes, the earlier, the better!”  
“Put some paper and a pencil on your bedside table. It is so easy to forget these dreams. They are enhanced, but they are quickly forgotten, just like natural dreams!”  
“I know, I know! Wouldn’t it better if you listened to it? You are more experienced with this kind of magic.”  
“Well, I’d say I’m more experienced with ANY kind of magic. But you know the Smith family. If I see them in my dreams, I won’t be able to keep them apart properly. It will be a glob of a dream. You, on the other hand, will have a nice, clear, well-separated dream. Much better for our purposes.”   
“How do I know that it works? That I am actually re-living the conversations they had while the basket was in their home? That I am not really dreaming?”  
“Well, there’s no guarantee. That’s why it isn’t up to the Sanctuary’s standards for evidence in criminal cases. But then, they so over-rely on psychics, they barely accept any other evidence.” And then she relayed an anecdote about her older sister, who had tried to find out if a man she fancied was talking about her while she was away. “In cases of romance, this method should never be trusted. You will dream what you want to dream… She was certain he had confessed to loving her. Alas, it was merely her overacting fantasy. But unless you fancy one of the Smiths….”   
Georgiana giggled. No, she did not fancy one of the Smiths.   
“How did the story end for your sister?”  
“My sister?”  
“Yes. It must be terrible to be mistaken about somebody’s interest in you…”  
“Well, maybe. Next time he visited, she ran up to him, and kissed him.”  
“Kissed him?!” Oh no, her reputation… Witches might be more liberal than the rest of society, but not THAT liberal.   
“Yes, kissed him. They married two months later. Have eight kids. All of them witches, too.”


	22. The funeral

As the weather was mild, any delay of the funeral was to be avoided. He had seen the night before how much the body had already started to decomposed. He wondered if the other mourners present would smell the corpse, even within the coffin. Or maybe the hothouse flowers – probably sent from Pemberley House – covered the stench for them?   
“For I am a stranger with thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.”  
Yes, he was indeed a stranger amongst all these mortals. Stranger than they could imagine. Always travelling incognito, hiding his true face, his skullface, and his true intentions, all in the name of the Irish sanctuary.   
“though hast been our refuge: from one generation to another.”  
Originally, the sanctuaries had been exactly that: Sanctuaries, places of safety in emergencies. Long, though, they had turned into political institutions, yielding power, following their agendas, engaging in politicking.   
“Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee: and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance”  
Often, what the sanctuaries did – his Sanctuary, the Irish Sanctuary, but also the English and Scottish ones, or those over on the continent, or those in over India and Japan – was benign. Daily administrative business. Keeping order, supporting sorcerers in need, regulating trade. But often enough, some Grandmage or other got hunger thirsty, and bad things happened. Looking at the way the English Sanctuary usually behaved, he was lucky that Ireland was one of the Cradles of Magic, or the English Sanctuary might very well have attempted to copy English non-magical expansionist policies.   
“The days of our age are threescore years and ten; and though men be so strong, that they come to fourscore years: yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow.”  
China Sorrows. A woman with excellent political intuition. What had she told him? That she had withdrawn all her investments from England? And it certainly wasn’t Napoleon she was worried about. Napoleon was done with, finally. He wouldn’t be leaving St.Helena ever again. So, what was she worried about?   
“earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”  
China was, in her ways, very down to earth. If she got this worried… Would there be war, again? He was so tired of war. The wars between mortals. The war between sorcerers. The war between different kinds of magical folk. He had seen enough of all three types of wars….  
He dusted a fleck of dirt off is coat sleeve, made the customary religious movements with the other mourners. He watched them carefully. Watched who was there, who was absent, who behaved conspicuously, and who behaved conspicuously unconspicously. Phileas wouldn’t know every person living in Lambton, but he’d be able to give him some background on the more prominent citizens of this town.


	23. The funeral, continued

The parson – no idea what his name was. Red-faced, blustering through the rites. Phileas would have done a better job, by far.  
Mr. Darcy, stone-cold, distant, aloof. One polite nod of acknowledgement.  
A short, squat woman, glowing happily. Probably one of those people who had nothing to do, and who saw funerals as social occasions, like balls. He hated people like that. Not that he had any reason to object to their lifestyle… It wasn’t his funeral after all. Still – they made him uncomfortable.  
The undertaker – Crankberry, was it? He was getting a little old for this business, wasn’t he? But he had a young assistant at the ready, shovel at hand to close the grave as soon as the ceremony was over. The boy looked like he was barely 14, and his black suit was already a size too small for him.  
Miss Miller, the victim’s sister, staring alternatingly at the coffin and at the parson. She hadn’t just lost a brother, she had also lost her livelihood. She had kept her brother’s home, and received room and board in exchange. Would there be an inheritance? He had been a mere doctor, so the house – if he owned it – was unlikely to be entailed. She could sell it, and live out the rest of her days simply, but comfortably. Or were there any other siblings, who she would have to share with?  
That guy over there, with the straight back in the frown, avoiding the parson’s gaze? Probably some kind of idolater. No, how did they call it? Skulduggery always had trouble keeping the different sects apart. A noncon… no…. a noncomformist. Yes, that was the word. A nonconformist. Somebody who wanted to honour the deceased, yet did not wish to honour the church which conducted the rite.  
An ugly woman, in a dress made from high quality cotton. Oh my! Why didn’t she plug the hairs from the wart on her nose? This way, they looked like beacons inviting one’s gaze. And the bonnet! What a terrible bonnet! She must have decorated it herself, with plants collected on her walks.  
Wait… those plants… Pain killers. Sleep inducers. Memory alterers. And an innocent looking poppy.  
The ugly woman noticed is gaze, and made just the slightest hint of a curtsey. Then, she glanced at Darcy, and into the direction where Pemberley lay. He tipped his hat, just a bit, in return. Professor Rootbody. THE professor Rootbody. Witches and sorcerers had little in common, they did not even frequent the same shops, or read the same books. Yet, her reputation was such, that even he, as a sorcerer, had heard of her. “Well, this Miss Darcy must be a clever little fellow, if she could get Professor Rootbody as teacher and mentor!” She had seemed quite competent, but not THAT impressive. Well, maybe Professor Rootbody had been in need of a Ritual Accessoire. How lucky he was that he didn’t have such a cheesy need for a partner in crime, uhm, partner in crime fighting. There were too many stray puppies, and too many young, talented sorcerers that would look good as a sidekick. One had to keep one’s hand off of such creatures.  
A middle aged woman, dressed poorly, with two younger daughters, dressed even worse. Maybe a neighbour? A patient he had been kind to? She looked like she needed some medical care. Or at least a good meal. As did her two daughters. The poverty mortals had to endure… How many sorcerers did he know that truly lacked food? A starving sorcerer was unheard of… But, then, how many sorcerers didn’t even know they were sorcerers, and lived their sorry lives as mortals, lacking any training in the arts of magic, and missing all the benefits magic could have given them?  
And the young woman, over there, at the wall, watching the funeral without being part of the funeral. Was this the young Smith woman? The oldest daughter? Standing over yonder, she looked conspicuous, guilty. Probably, her only guilt was the wish to pay respects to the dead, without actually causing a scandal. Or was it?  
Her face… Her skin around her left eye was dark blue. That injury was new, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be more than 24 hours old, or it would have started to fade. A member of her family? A member of the wider community? Whatever had happened, she certainly would not bring a complain to the Magistrate. Not with her brother facing the death penalty.


	24. Indoor gardening

“So, the parson did a good enough job, the usual people were present, but what has really surprised me is the black eye of Miss Lucy Smith.” Skulduggery sat stiffly on the upholstered chair, a symbolic teacup in front of his, while his old friend and his gardener were sitting comfortably on a plushy sofa on the other side of the tea table.   
“Did a parishioner commit the deadly sin of anger? Who was responsible?”  
“I don’t know. She left before the funeral was over. I wanted to follow her, but couldn’t have done so without drawing undue attention. And anyway, it would not have done for me – a mere stranger in these lands – to accost a young and unprotected woman with questions.”   
“Must ‘ve been that guy.” Simon interjected. He was sitting on the little sofa, next to Phileas, his arm around his shoulder.   
“That guy?”  
“Yeah, that guy. The guy that sneaks by Knacker’s Cottage at night.”  
“Please, tell me more.”  
“I don’t really know. Some kind of guy. Mid-thirties, maybe? Well dressed. Comes at night, leaves in the early morning.”  
“One of the local gentlemen?”  
“Well, not one I’d know.”   
“Is this general knowledge?” Skulduggery asked.   
“Nah, not exactly. I tend to notice stuff like this.”   
“What stuff?” Phileas asked. “Good looking guys visiting at night?”  
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re jealous!”   
“Well, then I won’t tell you that I’m jealous!” Phileas responded.   
“Jealousy or no jealousy” Skulduggery interrupted them, visibly annoyed. “Who else would know about this?”   
“The family, certainly. Her Mom. The older kids. Knacker’s Cottage is quite a distance from the other houses, so I’d be surprised if any of the neighbours noticed,” Simon explained.  
“Any of the neighbours that are indifferent to good looking men, you mean?”   
“Ah, come on, Phileas!”


	25. Indoor gardening, continued

“I admit it, I have difficulties reading your facial expression.”  
“This, indeed, is likely, as I do not possess a facial expression, ” Skullduggery Pleasant grinned – as he always did, his skull not permitting any other arrangement of bones and teeth.   
“As I said, I might have difficulties reading your facial expression. But I certainly can read your body language. What’s your problem?”  
“My problem?!”  
“I can see how stiff you are sitting. How much you stare at me. What’s wrong with you? Is it because I’m a mortal? Are you are opposed to mixed relationships!”  
“Opposed to mixed relationships? I happen to have married another sorcerer… But… this is because I fell in love with my wife, not because she was a sorcerer. Simon, you are not a sorcerer. But you are a sorcerer’s partner. You don’t partake in our magic, but you partake in our culture. I’m fine with that.”  
“Then, what is your problem?! Do you mind that we live in carnal sin?”  
“I don’t have enough flesh to submit to the desires of the flesh. If I COULD live in carnal sin, I probably would. Even thought my type of carnality might differ from your type of carnality.”   
“So, what IS your problem?”   
“Hey, Philli. Stop buggering our guest.”   
“I am not buggering anybody!”   
….  
“Allright, I am not buggering our guest.”  
“Just stop it. What do you want to hear? He’s obviously jealous. So what? I’d be jealous, if the roles were exchanged.”   
Simon grinned, as if to say “You are jealous, anyway.”  
“I am … not jealous. I am… I don’t know. It has nothing to do with the two of you. I guess I just miss working with a partner,” Pleasant responded.  
“Have you ever worked with a partner?”  
“There once was… a special somebody.”  
“What happened to him?”  
“Oh, I betrayed her. Got her killed. Or, at least, mostly killed.”  
Simon frowned.   
“Hey, we sorcerers are not all alike! Most of us can actually be pretty trustworthy. Skulduggery here, he’s one of the crazy ones, I admit! But I’m not! So stop frowning, and kiss me!”   
The gardener obliged.


	26. Family business

Georgiana had retired early that evening, but had found it difficult to find sleep. She had put the magic triangle under her pillowcase, and then had checked, and double checked, and triple checked its position. She knew that once the dream started, it could not be interrupted without losing the rest of the recording, so she had made sure her bladder was as empty as it could be, and that the door was well-locked and the window solidly shut, and that it was neither too warm nor too cold under her blanekts. She had taken up the right position – with the middle of her head right over the magic triangle – and had attempted to sleep. Her mentor, Professor Rootbody, had explained to her that the brain, the inside of the skull, looked just like the inside of a walnut: Two half-circles of greasy stuff, connected with a little bridge of more of that greasy stuff. And that, when trying to dream the contents of a magic triangle, she should try to get that ‘bridge’ part as close to the triangle as possible. So she lay on her bed, stiff like a corpse, trying to fall asleep.   
One of the flowers used in the magic triangle had this odd smell. Not quite a flower. Something dark, something living. A smell of blood.   
A smell of blood. The smell of his blood. The doctor’s blood. The blood that had been on her oldest brother’s hands and shirt. The smell of blood that had stuck to the door, the kitchen table, the kitchen sink. It had long been scrubbed away, but she could still smell it.   
Benjamin crying. He cried all the time, since mother had left. Stopped speaking, but never stopped crying. Mom and Matthew had been the only ones able to calm him down when he had one of his crying fits. Mom somehow always knew what it was that Benjamin needed. And Matthew could connect with him in a way none of the others of them could. With Mom gone and Matthew taken away there was nobody who could calm him down.   
Mary was sitting next the kitchen fire. The wood was nearly used up. She’d have to fetch some more. But who would do the sewing then? Mary would have to go. But who would mind the other kids then? Mary would take the older young ones with her collecting wood, and she would stay behind with the younger young ones, maybe mixing their water with a drop of two of the patent formula her mother had hidden away in the top drawer. Or was there still milk left? No, the bottle had long been emptied, as the food had been gobbled up, by all the hungry mouths. At least she had some sewing to do. Pemberley House always paid quickly. Just a few more hours of work, and she’d get some more bread. If it just weren’t so dark, then she could work twice as fast.  
“No, I won’t go. What if Mama returns? And it is not fair to expect me to take the boys along. You take care of them. I can’t do both at the same time.”  
She didn’t have the energy to argue with her sister. There was nothing to be argued. They needed money to buy food. They needed twigs and bits and pieces of bark and pines and stuff to keep the fire going. The house had to be kept clean. The young ones had to be fed. Somebody had to watch after them. Somebody had to keep them calm and safe. And in the end, the only one’s available for doing all of this were her and Mary. And Mary, approaching 10 and short for her age, was barely able to do her part of the chores.   
Somebody knocked on the door. She knew who it would be. It always was him.   
He didn’t even greet her when she opened the door.   
“I need to talk to your Mother,” he stated more than he asked.   
“My mother is not here.”  
“I see. Tell me where she is. I insist to see her.”   
“I beg your pardon. I don’t kno….”   
He stared at her. Wordlessly. Penetratingly. Everything around her seemed to disappear, and she only saw his eyes, he brutal, questioning eyes.   
“Where. Is. That. Witch.” He demanded.   
“Tell me where my useless sister is!” his eyes screamed at her.   
“This has been going on for long enough. It will end now.” His eyes! His terrible, cold eyes!   
“In times like this, even she must see that family must go first. She’s a Smith, god-damn-it.” He broke the gaze he had been holding, the rest of the room became visible again, and his eyes returned to being just ordinary eyes.   
“You know nothing, nothing!” he cursed, under his breath, looking at Lucy as if she were a worthless piece of vermin. His glance passed along the rest of the kids, stopping just very shortly on Benjamin, before continuing. “Worthless mortals, all of them. What a waste of good family stock,” he hissed.   
“We’re hungry…” Lucy whispered.   
“So what?”   
“You are a family relation…”   
“Family relation? I am no FAMILY to the likes of YOU!” he screamed at her, pushing her away, violently.   
He turned to leave. Glanced, just for a second, towards Benjamin, who was sitting in the corner, whimpering. Already standing in the doorframe, he dug in his pocket, and tossed some small coins on the floor.   
“Tell my sister that it is time to come back. Back to the family. We have a job for her to do. Sanctuary business. Tell her it’s now or never. Tell her that.”  
Georgiana woke up, with a startle. Nervously looking around. She was all alone, back in her room, covered in cold sweat. Her eye hurt – or was it just the memory of Lucy’s eye? With every second that passed since she had woken up, more and more of her dream disappeared. She grabbed pencil and paper, and wrote down all she could remember.


	27. Canyons and flowers

When two people stand on opposite sides of a canyon, they might be separated by only couple of dozen feet, but for all practical purposes they could sit on opposite sides of the moon.   
Mr. Pleasant and Professor Rootbody were in neighbouring towns, but the rules of sex and social class separated them. They could not correspond – that would have been unsightly. And she could not invite him into a household in which she was a mere guest, while he as an unmarried man could not entertain her in any way or form.   
If Phileas had been married, his wife – a Curate’ wife – might reasonably have invited Georgiana, and Miss Rootbody could have accompanied her in her role as companion. But Phileas was unlikely to get married any time soon.   
Lizzie, as female head of the Pemberley Estate household, could invite the local parson. Inviting the neighbouring parish’s curate would have appeared odd, but not scandalous. But Elizabeth, who would have to do the inviting in Georgiana’s place, barely knew Theophile Bartlett and would have gotten even more suspicious. And Mr. Pleasant, having been a house guest, and having used up the customary time, could not be invited any time soon.   
All women on one side, all men on the other side, with differences in rank exacerbating the distance, resulted in a canyon a foot broad, but a mile deep. The – also very real – distance between sorcerers and witches was dwarfed by comparison.   
Witches and Sorcerers were different kinds of folks, they didn’t mingle, but this was, most people would have claimed, more out of habit than out of any real social taboo against such contact. At least in times of peace. And, after all, there hadn’t been a war between sorcerers and witches in England for decades. Scotland, now, was an entirely different story – but they were in Pemberley, and not in the country of eloped couples and quick, patched-up marriages.   
Skulduggery needed information. Where was Mrs. Smith? Who was the well-dressed man who visited the Smith family under cover of darkness? What did Rootbody know about the goings on in Oxford? And he had information to trade: Political rumours being passed around in the Irish Sanctuary about developments in England, and even some news regarding the conflict in Scotland, though it might be a bit unpatriotic to share those with a witch.   
If he couldn’t think of anything better, he’d be reduced to levitating to Pemberley and knocking on Professor Rootbody’s window panes, like a thirst-crazed vampire.   
“She’s one of those plant-magic people, right?” Simon interrupted their reveries.   
“Yeees?” Skulduggery’s empty eye sockets turned towards him.   
“I know the second sub-gardener of Pemberley.”  
“Yeees?”  
“I can arrange for a bouquet of flowers to be placed in her room.”  
“Well, how would this help us?”  
Simon grinned: “You’ll still end up levitating to her bedroom window. But at least she won’t be surprised. Floriography - the language of flowers - is surprisingly complex. And Pemberley’s floral vocabulary is very broad. How about ‘DEATH VISITS – CHASTE INTEREST – AT NIGHT. She’ll get the idea”


	28. Midnight party

“What a lovely carpet,” Phileas commented. He was still a bit seasick from being Skulduggery’s tag-along flying companion. Skulduggery could levitate, but not good enough or stable enough to instil confidence in a man like Phileas, who considered any form of travel faster than a comfortable walk to be a bad – and usually unnecessary - idea.   
“Please, don’t vomit on it. This would be exceedingly bad mannered,” Skulduggery added.   
“It’s dangerous to fly on an empty stomach. Take one of these,” suggested Georgiana, also sitting on the floor, passing a little envelope with dried leafs to their guest.   
Professor Rootbody looked much more impressive in the comfortable chair she was using. The black hairs growing out of her nose wart weren’t quite as bad when viewed from below. All others – who didn’t have any business to hang around in her room at night – were sitting on the floor, in order not to be visible from outside the building, in case a servant chanced to look up the wall and scan the windows while passing hither and tither. Georgiana could have taken a chair, too, but considered it politer to lounge on the floor with their guests.   
“Mr. Pleasant, I would ask you what gave us the honour of your visit. But we are all very busy, so I would beg you to dispense of the usual niceties, and to cut directly to the bone.”  
Skulduggery gave a court nod.   
“So, what is it you want?”  
“Information, Professor. And I bring information in exchange.”  
“What information do you have? And which information do you seek?”  
“You already confirmed that Matthew Smith is the son of one of the Oxford Smiths. We know that a well-dressed man, not known in this and the surrounding parishes, visited them at night, one at least one, probably more, occasions. What else can you tell us?”  
“About the Oxford Smiths? “  
“And their connections with the local Smith family.”  
She looked at Georgiana.   
“You will already be aware that the Oxford Smiths are an old sorcerer family. Psychics, all of them, and most of them quite powerful.”   
“Yes, I was aware of the fact.”  
“The you have probably wondered how this can be. How all their children can be sorcerers, and psychics to boot. The spark runs in families, but it ebbs and flows, and even two sorcerers, whose parents were sorcerers in turn, do not have any guarantee that all their offspring will possess this spark. It happens occasionally – but mostly out of chance. Yet, in the last five or six generations, no child has been born to any of the Oxford Smiths who didn’t turn out to be a sorcerer.”   
“Yes.”  
“You say ‘yes’. But do you understand?” She stared at the detective and the curate.   
“Please, Professor, explain it.”  
“It isn’t possible.”  
“But you just explained that is was!” interrupted Phileas.  
“I just relayed to you the version of reality that is presented by the Smiths. It is not possible. All surviving family members may be carriers of the spark.”  
“Are you implying that…”  
“Yes, I am implying that the family selectively kills those amongst themselves that lack the spark. Infanticide. They wait till the child is a few months, maybe a year or two. If the child does not provide evidence of the spark, they let the child die. And if the child is inconveniently robust, they may help it along on its path to death.”  
Everybody stared at her.   
“I do not have full evidence for the last statement. I have been collecting statistics on births and deaths in that family for the last decades. The patterns are clear. But I cannot point to any person in particular and identify him or her as complicit in these killings. It may be the whole family that is involved, or maybe just a great-aunt with excellent access to all the children. I cannot tell.”  
Silence.   
“They look at non-magical folks the same way they look at animals. Useful, but no equals. Exploitable, but not part of the family.”  
“They must hate Mrs. Smith. Her children are non-magical, aren’t they? Except Matthew, of course.”  
“Except Matthew, yes, and maybe one of the younger ones, Benjamin,” Georgiana added, recalling her sleep-vision.   
“And they worked for the English Sanctuary, didn’t they?” Skulduggery digged.  
“Obviously. And, as your choice of tense implied, you already know that they do not do so any more – even though the powers of psychics are in high demand. Now, Mr. Pleasant, it is your turn.”  
“What do you want to know?”  
“Well, how about we start with you committing a bit of treason?”  
“Treason, Professor?”  
“Sorcerer – witch relations are not… easy on this Island. Even if we ignore the situation in Scotland. Tell me what your people are plotting against my people.”  
“Professor – I am working for the Irish Sanctuary. Their mission is to protect non-magical people against magical people. As long as I am contractually bound to them, I will respect this mission. Preventing conflict between two magical fractions is not treason.”  
“Well, then let’s start by sharing the information with us that we need to do our bit of prevention, too.”   
Skulduggery nodded, and started his well-rehearsed, and only slightly redacted, presentation of the key facts as he understood them.


	29. Midnight party, continued

It wasn’t polite to listen at doors.   
But then, nobody had caught Lizzie doing it.   
And, after all, weren’t secret assignations in a companion’s rooms at night even more of an offence against decorum?


	30. The morning after

“Please pass the butter, dear.”   
The voice of her husband and master barely registered with Elizabeth. She had spent a sleepless night, and her advancing years made it difficult to hide that fact. A woman approaching her thirties had no business staying awake all night – at least not if she wished to be presentable the next morning.  
Georgiana looked surprisingly fresh. Had she gotten a good night’s sleep? Was this just the power of youth? Or one of her witch’s brews? A little package of leaves? A bottle of something?   
Georgiana’s companion, Ms. Rootbody – or, should I say Professor Rootbody? – had send her excuses. She was feeling incomposed and had elected to stay away from the family breakfast. Was she truly incomposed? Or was she up at her room, plotting the downfall of Britain?   
Hadn’t they had enough trouble with that Frenchmen? This country didn’t need any warmongering hags!   
“The butter, please.”  
“Oh, of course.”   
“Aren’t you hungry, my dear?”  
“Oh, I’ll have a cup of tea. I really do not need more in the mornings.”   
“Is that so?” Ah well, lying to Darcy was not a clever strategy. He paid too much attention to her needs, her preferences, her little frivolities. With a comment to the housekeeper, he had ensured that her favourite flowers adorned the drawing room, and that there was always a jar of the marmalade she loved so much on the breakfast table. He personally must have arranged for some additions to the proud family library that reflected her very personal taste in literature. In short: He knew she was a hearty eater at breakfast.   
“I have sent a note to the apothecary.” This was a statement, not a question.   
“Thank you, dear,” Lizzie replied, nipping at her tea, while ignoring Georgiana’s angry frown.   
He rose from the table. “Please excuse me. The Magistrate announced an early visit for today. The assizes are still two months away, but there were a few minor matters he wanted to discuss with me.”


	31. An apprentice calls

It wasn’t the apothecary himself who delivered the little bottle. It was his apprentice. Young Patrick had always been one of the smartest minds at Sunday school. His unfortunate family background – he was the natural child of somebody, and raised by a mother of little means and little reputation, rather than having been farmed out after birth – would normally have meant that his brains and his dedication to learning would have led to nothing. Somebody – probably Darcy – had paid for his apprenticeship, and he was doing exceedingly well in that profession.   
This, probably, was why he had been sent. As an acknowledgement of the debt this young man owed the family. Normally, of course, the Darcy’s – if reduced to calling the apothecary rather than the physician – would have expected to be served by the apothecary himself.   
“Madam, this Japanese preparation will help you sleep, and will also steady your appetite. You should, though, use it cautiously. One teaspoon in the mornings, and one in the evenings, should be the maximum.”  
He handed the bottle over to Mrs. Darcy.   
“What year of your apprenticeship is this?” Georgiana nearly scowled at him.   
“My third, Madam.”   
“And you are yet to be instructed in the dangers of Laudanum?”  
“You are a very perceptive, maybe even educated, woman, Miss Darcy.”  
“And you are not a perceptive, or even educated, young man. Or a very, very sheltered man.”  
Lizzie interrupted: “The housekeeper will see to the bill.”   
“Yes, Madam.”  
And Lizzie continued: “One more thing. You are aware of the events regarding the Smith family?” The question was, of course, purely symbolic. The apothecary’s apprentice would notice the death of a physician directly in the increase of his workload. Also, apothecaries were a little bit like nurses, in that they heard a lot of rumours. Everybody got sick. Everybody who could afford it consulted at least an apothecary. Apothecaries were wont to keep abreast of any major and minor developments in a village.   
“Yes, Madam.”  
“We have been supporting the family with the occasional gift of food. They always appeared to be honest, hard-working people. But there seemed to be a spot of ill-health in the family, long before this occurred…”  
“Uhm, yes, Madam. The oldest Smith boy, he had always been… peculiar. Dr. Smith had taken an interest in him. Written to city friends to ask for advice. Of course, when a child is born like this… This goes beyond a pharmacist’s power, and I would be surprised if the medical arts could do much for somebody like him. But Dr. Smith mentioned special asylums being built for people like him. People who were a danger to themselves, and a burden to their families and communities.”  
“Asylums?”  
“Yes. Specialized hospitals for the insane.”  
“You are referring to Bedlam?”  
“Yes, Madam. It has just moved to lovely new buildings in Newark, I was told. And they are engaging in the most innovative treatments: Water therapy. Moral therapy. “  
“Do they take charity cases?”  
“Well, probably only in the incurable cases. But Dr. Miller felt that there was something interesting about this young Smith, something that might interest the doctors there, and may get him a place and access to the best treatments on the planet. He had always a great interest in lunacy and its study, though, of course, there was little need for such a speciality for a simple family physician in a town like Lambton.”  
“Yes, naturally. Thank you very much.” By these words, Lizzie ended the transaction and the conversation. She had gotten what she wanted. As soon as the apprentice had left, she turned towards her sister in law.   
“I don’t care what you are. I don’t care what you do. But, as Mistress of this household, could you please let me know when you plan to entertain visitors? It damages the reputation of the whole household if visitors aren’t even offered a cup of tea.”   
“I… We…”  
“You want to find out more about the Smiths. There you go – I got valuable information about them for you. Don’t I deserve your trust?”  
“We… I….”  
“I know that Skulduggery person is not what he seems. He can do weird things… And his face… Does he even have one? And your companion, she’s not what she seems. She treats you as if, in fact, you were HER companion, not the other way around. She doesn’t have the touch of the dependant elderly female – she behaves as if she were used to authority. And you, my dear sister, you, most certainly, are more than you seem. So, decide: Work against me, and find out how much influence I wield in this household and this community, or work with me, and see what information I can access.   
“Dearest Lizzie, I think I was correct in my assessment: You are, indeed, good at seeing the person behind the mask. Let’s go knock on Professor Rootbody’s door. She’s probably back already from her mission. She’ll tell you more. In exchange….”   
“What?”   
“In exchange you give me this bottle. Laudanum damages the unborn child.”  
“The unborn child?”  
“Yes, dearest Lizzie. The unborn child. Now, let’s go and see if Professor Rootbody is back.”


End file.
